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Back The Hiding Game
Chapters (64)
  1. Cover
  2. Naomi Wood
  3. Dedication page
  4. Epigraph page
  5. 1
  6. WEIMAR, 1922
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. DESSAU, 1929
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. BERLIN, 1932
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. 47
  55. 48
  56. 49
  57. 50
  58. 51
  59. 52
  60. 53
  61. Thank you
  62. Praise
  63. The Hiding Game
  64. Also by Naomi Wood

To have in your possession the person who has been the object of both your desire and your misery is an unsettling thing. I had always measured my love by the intensity of my envy. Now that envy was no longer there, it was different. It felt unusual. Here was Charlotte, here was I, and here, in between us, there was nothing in our way.

That I should never have such happiness as I had that month was a certainty I did not resist: in fact, I surrendered. I was sure what we had would only last days, and when it lasted weeks I was sure it would end in months, and when it turned into months I begged that I might get a year – which is what, to my surprise, in the end, I had. Three of them. Three whole years.

Perhaps I might even have had more.

It’s my fault that I lost her in Berlin. Not Walter’s. I underestimated the dangers. No one – not me, not Kaspar, not even Charlotte, I suppose – thought things would get so bad. And yet. And yet. The black wing of memory brushes against me.

I look over to the couple. They have gone, and I know where: home to bed. Good for them. There’s a space where their bodies were, a dip in the sand, and two neat holes where their windbreak stood.

The day is no cooler. The waves tip and rock. Squawks of children; pinkened bodies. I wonder whether we would have stayed together: whether we would have set up that family. I act like it would have been a straight trajectory. It might not have been.

I swim. It takes some time for me to be clear of the families but when I do the water is so cold it’s a brace. I kick out further then dive to where it’s darker. I stay there for as long as possible until I must shoot for breath.

Later in the day I walk the cliffs. I have never thought about jumping, but today I do; I wonder what it would be like to hit the sea at such a speed. I know it’s just this story, making me miserable. All this remembering. At least I’ll be done soon and I’ll lay all these people to rest. Winter will come; I’ll burn the self-portrait and return to my painted breezeblocks. I didn’t realise the force of my confession, and I want it to be over.